Felicia blushed like a sixteen year old. She reached for her dressing gown and pulled it toward her. But Dulcie Dierckx, slamming the door behind her, leaned against the panels fairly devouring Felicia with her eyes. "Oh! Oh!" she cried in absolute ecstacy; "Oh, Pandora! Pandora! don't move! How could I have been so stupid not to have seen you before! Oh, please drop the coat! Oh! Oh! you adorable--you beautiful person--you little old peach!" Felicia laughed. Laughed her soft, breathless laugh and drew the gown closer. "You--you're rather embarrassing--" she sighed, "Though of course," her eyes danced mischievously, "my knees and my ankles and my insteps are vairee nice indeed--I got them all from Louisa, Margot says--and my hands--" she stretched one out--"They're Grandmother Trenton's--and I think I have nice ears--but the rest of me--" she shrugged, "The rest of me won't do at all--my mouth is too big and--no, I wouldn't be at all your Pandora--it's dark here--that's why you thought you saw her--" "I saw her," insisted the Sculptor Girl stubbornly. "And you'd be a brute not to help me--I--look here," she lied casually, "I didn't tell you but I've managed a bit of money--I'm not asking you to pose for nothing--I can pay you more than you earn at your sewing--" "Oh, money," she stammered. "I didn't think about money--Sculptor Girl--how could you--" "Taxes," ejaculated the Sculptor Girl bluntly. "Interest! You can't forget 'em or we'll all be back in the gutter you know--So that's settled--to-morrow morning at nine--I'll have a good fire--you won't mind awfully, will you, if I hang wet cheese cloth around you--?" She was trying to keep the excitement out of her voice but her eyes were sparkling. She no longer saw Felicia, she only saw Pandora--the Pandora of her dreams! But all the same, after she'd lighted her cigarette in her own room she drew a long breath and pottered about her few possessions until she found something pawnable. In the shop she bargained coolly enough with the pawn-broker, pocketed the money she fought for and as she was leaving stopped to gaze casually at the motley array of things in the dusty case. She stared unbelievingly at a quaint mahogany box, warily priced two or three other things and finally asked "how much for the damaged writing case?" Ten minutes later she fled with it under her arm. It didn't look like much. It was quite empty and it would make a nice box for Pandora to be opening. But over and over her heart was pounding, "It's the same Bee on it that's on her brushes--it's the same Bee she has said was on the silver--it's--oh, if it only could be hers!"